It’s 7:00pm, Saturday night. I’ve survived the rehearsal dinner, the ceremony, the cocktail hour and the requisite introductions to Date #7’s relatives, including the uncle who mistook me for his nephew’s previous Plus One. It’s time for the reception. Finally.
Now in an ordinary late-October wedding, this would be the point at which the guests would be led into a dining room—you know, those funny things with four walls, ceilings, and doors to separate the guests from the elements? Well, we are not led into a dining room.
We are led into a dining tent. We pass not through a door but a flap, and said flap is almost connected to the eighteenth century farmhouse that houses the dance floor, but not quite. Do you know what happens when tents aren’t properly sealed? Do you?
Well, in case you’ve never been camping (or to a wedding at Tyler Arboretum in late-October), I’ll tell you: you get wet. It doesn’t even have to be raining. You can curl up in your sleeping bag snug as a bug in a rug but you’ll be awaken by the sound of water drip… drip… dripping onto your head.
I’m not sure why this happens (maybe something to do with condensation or the capillary effect?) but it’s practically a universal law of physics: if you’re tent isn’t closed properly, you will get wet.
Now, I know what you’re all thinking: you’re thinking, Kat, stop exaggerating! You’re at a wedding, not a campground. How on earth are you going to get wet when you’re just sitting there eating a Caesar salad?
Well, I’ll tell you.
Remember my minister friend from the rehearsal dinner? The one who hit the bar before it even opened? Turns out he’s sitting to my left, and about halfway through the first toast, his water glass decides to take a nose dive.
Of course, having spent the better part of the afternoon listening to Date #7 recite the Apache Wedding Blessing, I am determined to “focus on what is right […]not only the part which seems wrong ” so I just smile as the icy contents of the minister’s water glass pour into my lap.
After all, only half of the glass landed on me. The other half landed on the table cloth and although said table cloth is now saturated and clinging to my legs, I’ve neglected to wear pantyhose so at least there’s no capillary effect going on here.
Besides, I’m wearing a wrap! So it’s only my wrap that’s wet, not my $10 Jomar’s Bargain Basement dress. Of course, this means that I’ll have to now take off my wrap, thereby exposing my bare arms to the elements, but this is fine because I’m here with a date! And everyone knows that it’s the date’s responsibility to offer up his jacket should his lady friend come to require it.
Well, everyone except Date #7.
(Are we surprised?)
Both he and the minister have dutifully sacrificed their napkins, as have the rest of our table mates so I’m being dabbed with Date #7’s mother’s napkin, his father’s napkin, his brother’s napkin, his brother’s date’s napkin and even those belonging to the next door neighbors of the bride and groom… but I’m wet. And shivering. And the one man who has the power to bestow his unworn jacket upon me is—once again— oblivious to my plight.
I decide to take matters into my own hands and so I tell him, in very plain English, that I am cold and would like to wear his jacket, please.
He obliges and later confesses, “I haven’t had a girlfriend in a while. I like you. I really like you, but I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Gee, you think?